Nirvana's Aphony
by thejimius
Summary: A Suikoden II parallel story.
1. Prologue

**Nirvana's Aphony**

Prologue

_My dream of your face that I softly touch melts in the morning -Rikki_

Forty years ago, and it's still fresh in her mind.

Jillia sat in an old wooden chair, worn from overuse. She rocked back and forth; it's how she spent the majority of her time these days. Her hair was a matted black, dotted with strands of grey. The dress she wore was tattered and dirty; a fading piece of cloth that was once red. Her shoes, an obscurely faded black, were just as soiled.

And her eyes, well, there was a certain hint of sadness behind them. They were once brown, but to look into the endless grey peering out at you like the dull sight of a statue was to see the waiting. For who or what was anyone's guess.

It would be easy to pass the woman off as just another old hag gone crazy as she'd aged. Maybe they'd be right, maybe she had gone crazy. And she might be an old hag, but she was once something magnificent. Something formidable. She once mattered. Jillia certainly isn't this pitiful creature sitting here in a pool of her own sorrow. No, Jillia is dead.

Forty years ago was the beginning of the end for her. They're calling it the Fall of Highland these days. Back then, she was the Queen, King Jowy's wife. The night before the Allied Army invaded L'Renouille, Jowy had arranged Jillia and Pilika's escape. He had set up an estate for herself and Pilika to live on in Harmonia-the country she lives in now.

In those early days in the lovely Blight Manor, she had been naive. Frivolously spending her money, thinking that one day Highland would be revived. She never stopped to realize that the Queen of a deceased nation has no real power or authority. Her only saving grace was the rather large sum of money Jowy had left to support herself and Pilika--and her treasury was rapidly disappearing. She gave money to the poor and bought many unnecessary items, such as jewelry, or expensive art to adorn the walls of the Blight Estate. As queen, she never did have to worry about expenses.

Unfortunately for her, Harmonia had a very strict Estate Tax policy. Jowy had set it up so the taxes were paid annually by a young boy born from a Harmonian mother whose mate was of pure Highland blood. The boy went by the name of Virgil, and at the end of every year he would come to the Blight Manor and collect the proper sum of money, then deliver it to the local Harmonian tax collector. She assumed Jowy had met him sometime during his tenure as King. She smiled sadly. Jowy was always keeping secrets from her, but she realized more than he knew.

Virgil was a wonderful boy, a lighthearted fellow with a kind, gentle spirit. You don't find many like him in the world. He had retained the requisite blond hair-blue eyed appearance that makes you superior in the eyes of the Harmonian Theocracy from his mother, but not the pompous Harmonian attitude that she had always despised.

About twenty five years ago, Virgil, at that point well into his thirties, made his annual round to the Blight Estate, only to find that the treasury was empty. She, of course, simply told Virgil to tell the tax collector that she had run out of money, and couldn't pay him. Virgil put up a good fight, but Jillia was both arrogant and stupid, and so he went anyways.

Not long after that, the tax collector, Simon was his name, came to the front steps of the Blight Manor, accompanied by twenty Harmonian soldiers and Virgil, whose hands were tied behind his back. Simon was a small, well built man, and a cold, unfeeling one as well. He wore thin black pants made of silk, obviously from some foreign land, possibly the Island Nations. His blonde hair barely skirted the long cotton overcoat he wore, also black, which was just as thin as his pants. He peered at the former queen through blue eyes with a sharpness Jillia's no longer had.

He looked a lot like Virgil, actually.

With a flick of the wrist, the Harmonian soldiers quickly burned down the Manor. Jillia was thrown into the local jail, and Pilika, well, she never did find out what happened to her. Pilika probably died in that burning manor, trapped and unable to escape. Virgil had broken free from the Harmonian soldier who held him down as they dragged away Jillia. He was running towards Simon when two more soldiers quickly grabbed him as a third stepped up and stabbed him in the lower left side of his back without hesitation. They released their grasp, and he fell to the ground in a bloody heap. No one dared help Virgil; the law had taken care of that poor man, who had dedicated his life to the lives of a name that no longer meant anything.

Maybe five years later, when she was released from jail, Jillia went quickly to where she once lived. She found another Manor there, another family. Tired and beaten, she traveled down the street, and found an old wooden chair sitting in the mis-kept lawn of a petite little house that had obviously been abandoned years ago. The house's paint had faded, and the wood was splintering; it looked as if it could collapse any minute. She sat down in that chair, and rocked back and forth, her eyes always looking for something, waiting for someone.

That was twenty years ago. And as she sits in her chair, rocking back and forth, she can't help but think about Jowy. She finally spoke. What came out was not the elegant speech of a Queen, but the raspy and barely coherent voice of an old woman beaten down by life.

"Jowy…"

She began to cry.


	2. Chapter 1

**Nirvana's Aphony**

Chapter 1 - The Assassin

_The pain of it all started here. Right here, in this very room. The shadows that danced and flickered against that glass bottle of Kanakan wine just seconds before vanished, as I did that night. Two figures were in the midst of a titanic struggle for survival in a room lit only by the faint light of a candle on top of a sturdy oak table. In an instant, they smothered the candle and tipped over the table with their frantic, utterly chaotic forms._

_I was the one with the knife. And in the end, I stood over her, over Lady Annabelle, over the mayor of Muse, capitol City-State of the League of Jowston. She lay on the floor, blood spurting out of her neck in quick, rhythmic bursts. I had done it, I had assassinated Anabelle._

_And just then, after I had done the deed that would help bring prosperity to a land troubled and corrupted by it's own leaders, I realized that I _had_ done it. And in that very moment I dropped the murderous weapon I held in my left hand; I watched it fall, glistening silver encased in the blood I had so heartlessly drawn from Lady Annabelle, and it fell with a plop into the crimson puddles that were quickly forming on the floor._

_I wanted to scream. Oh, how I wanted to reverse what I had done. As I began to shake violently, uncontrollably, the double doors of Lady Annabelle's chambers burst open. Standing there, with a harrowing look of horror upon their faces, were Nanami and Riou. Light poured in the darkened room around their bodies as they stood there in the doorway._

_Riou was the first one to speak. "Jowy, what happened?" he questioned, his face laden with anger, fear, and confusion._

_I always did love him like a brother. He was the best friend I could ever hope to have. As children, we would sit high in the branches of a large and welcoming oak, shielded from the nearly unbearable Kyaro heat. Just the thought of such times brought a sense of calm to my shivering body. I loved those days, and now, as I looked at Riou and Nanami, I could see how quickly they were fading. _

_I stepped forward, towards Riou, and put out my hand. "I, I'm, I'm sorry, Riou, I'm sorry Nanami." And with that, I ran. I slipped through the nearest window, and ran._

_I wanted to stop, to turn back. As I kept running through the damp grassy woodlands behind Muse City Hall, I looked up at the midnight sky, the stars shining hazily through the dense fog that enveloped the city, and I realized that I couldn't go back. I continued to run until Muse was but a dot in the distance, until I could no longer breath in the cold, wet air lingering amoung the stars, until I could no longer see the object of my past, or the pain of my future._

_All things come to an end. Suddenly, lungs burning, my legs gave out from under me, and my momentum propelled me across the slick, wet grass head first. There I lay, the night's moisture clinging to my cold and shivering body. I turned over, and looked up at the stars. I could barely see them now._

_"Who's there?" The foreign voice was just enough to bring back conscious thought. It came with a little fear, sadness, but more importantly a hint of kindness. I let my head fall sideways against the grass. I saw him then, running towards me..._

Virgil leaned back against a large rock, one hand against its rough textures and the other firmly gripping the hilt of his sword, with loose-fitting steel-mesh hanging on his arms. A small cluster of fireflies flew about lazily ahead of him in the moist-laden summer night, their seemingly random luminance blurred by the thick fog that had come rolling over the hilltops at midnight's beckoning. The young soldier breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. His head began to rock slowly to a sound of beauty, the music of his home, a deep, wonderful melody that only he could hear.

"Sit up, Soldier!" suddenly the musical paradise that soothed his mind vanished, and Virgil straightened himself. Virgil looked behind him and saw the Captain briskly walking towards him from the camp. He could see the last of the fires being put out by the young men of Highland Army's 3rd company 1st division, and surmised that it was time for him to call it a night. He began walking towards his tent.

"I said attention, soldier!" Virgil immediately stopped and stood with his hands on his side in perfect posture The captain finally made it over to him. "What the hell are you doing?" the Captain barked.

"Sir, I..."

"I said what the hell do you think you're doing?" The captain was no more than two inches from Virgil's face, and spat as he screamed at him. Virgil lifted his hand to wipe the spit from his face. "I said attention! Are you deaf, soldier? Do I need to beat the words into your damned skull?"

Virgil quickly brought his hand back down to his side, as the small drops of spit that the captain had so generously deposited on his face began rolling down his cheeks. "You blondes are all the same. If your daddy weren't such a legend in this division, I'd send you and that whore you call mother back home. You're the watch tonight. Move!"

"Yes, sir."

"Dammit, I said move! Now move!" With that, the captain violently grabbed the arm-hole of Virgil's breastplate and jerked him in the direction of the look-out post on the other side of camp.

He took the hint. Virgil sprinted across camp, garnering the occasional wary glance from his fellow soldiers, until he was no longer in the captain's field of vision. Then he slowed his pace, and finally found the time to wipe the salivary gift from his face that the captain had been so willing to give.

The camp was slowly darkening, and with all the fires now put out, the only luminance came in the form of candles from within the canvas tents, transforming them into huge, makeshift lanterns. He could see men here and there, finishing out the last of their daily tasks as he jogged by. Several of them weren't doing anything aside from sitting outside those tents and enjoying the stillness of the peaceful, perpetually foggy night sky.

Virgil looked behind him, and slowed to a walk. The captain didn't even sleep on this side of the camp. Soon the symphonic sound of what might have been returned to him. He relished that sound. Everything seemed choreographed to fit the magical melody shifting and swaying inside Virgil's head: the smoke rising from smoldering fires dancing upwards through the misty white fog; the Highland private leaning against a worn wooden chest, his head nodding up and down at the whims of his sleepiness.

He came upon the old wooden structure as per the captain's orders. Sure, he didn't exactly get there quickly, but the fact that he got there was enough, right? He looked back again. The captain wasn't there.

Virgil tilted his head backwards and looked up. It was obviously an old post, or at least the weather made it seem so. The wood was waterlogged and the whole thing looked ready to come tumbling down at any second.

Nevertheless, he walked up to the poorly crafted ladder and began climbing. With each step upwards, the entire post seemed to groan and wince at the additional weight slowly making it's way up the ladder. Once at the top, he pulled himself over the ledge and leaned against the side rails of the look-out post.

There the melody of his mind continued to play. For minutes, hours, he didn't know.

His mother would hum that song to him when he was little every night before bed. His father thought it was stupid. "Don't baby the boy," he would say, but Virgil loved that song. He couldn't remember all the words. "_At the market his face is there, morning sun her face lives fair._" Or was it "_at the market never there_?" Oh well. All he needed was the melody, and he had that.

There was a thud in the distance, and someone grunted in pain. Virgil quickly stood up and looked out towards the direction the sound had originated. He saw nothing, and then began quickly climbing down the ladder. If he rang the bell, and nothing was out there, he'd be in a whole heap of trouble with the captain. No, Virgil would inspect it himself, it was easier that way.

He was quietly running towards the disturbance even before his feet touched the wet, mossy grass. As he ran, breathing the heavy fog in and out, he began to make out a blurry figure laying on the ground. He got closer and closer, until he was able to manage a "who goes there?" without disturbing the rest of the camp.

The figure shifted and turned over, letting out barely audible, disoriented groans.

Virgil decided that this boy wasn't any threat to him or anybody else. But why was he running around in the woods at this hour? Surely he must know about the Highland invasion of Muse by now.

"Here, let me help you." He grabbed the boys arm and stood him up. He was able to stand by himself, albeit with his hands on his knees and breathing very heavily.

"What's your name, boy?" Boy. Virgil wasn't any older than he was.

"J..." he breathed, "Jowy."

Jowy certainly didn't look dangerous. His face was crusted in mud, and he had no weapons on him as far as Virgil could tell. He wore a deep blue shirt, what used to be white pants, and what looked to be a very nice (if a bit used) pair of tanned leather boots. "Are you okay, Jowy?"

Jowy lifted his head. Virgil could see something in his eyes. If sadness or remorse ever had a look, this was it. "Yeah, I'm okay." Jowy stood up straight.

"Well then, come on, I'll have to take you to the captain." Butterflies fluttered in Virgil's stomach--he winced, then laughed.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing. Lets get going."

Virgil thought the prisoner was supposed to be uneasy, not the captor.


End file.
